


The Shadow of the Past

by holy_milk, Leyan



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Annatar is a creepy fucker, Annatar never lies, Elrond is everyone's favourite cousin, Family Issues, Gen, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Multiple, Poor Celebrimbor, Silvergifting only comes into play in the last chapter, it's still fairly Celebrimbor-centric, oh Celebrimbor has lots of those, that doesn't mean you should trust him, there are some Dwarves too, this canonical tag actually exists!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26158480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holy_milk/pseuds/holy_milk, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leyan/pseuds/Leyan
Summary: No matter how good things seem to be going for him ever since Morgoth was overthrown, Celebrimbor can't ever be at peace. The Shadow still hangs over those born into the cursed House of Fëanor, and the fear of following in the steps of his forebearers gnaws at him in the dark hours of the night.That is quite a lot for Annatar to work with.
Relationships: Annatar & Celebrimbor | Telperinquar, Annatar/Celebrimbor | Telperinquar, Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Celegorm | Turcafinwë, Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Curufin | Curufinwë, Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Elrond Peredhel, Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Sons of Fëanor
Comments: 46
Kudos: 43
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the art prompt by bird-with-glasses - you'll find her lovely artwork in chapter 7.
> 
> A HUGE shout-out to [sea_hag_dominion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sea_hag_dominion) for beta reading this story and providing me with invaluable feedback on it!

“Your offer is generous, but I am afraid I will have to decline,” Gil-galad stated with a smile as Annatar waited, head bowed, for the king’s verdict.

Annatar blinked and raised his head slowly.

"Are you sure?" the Maia asked, keeping his voice calm and even with effort. "Perhaps if you would spare me some more time to explain—"

"Absolutely certain," the king replied firmly. "If that is the only business you had in this land, then you should feel free to leave now.”

Annatar felt as if someone had poured a bucket of icy water all over him. He stared at the king, then at his herald standing in the shadow behind the high throne. The man's face looked impassive, but there was a smug light in his keen grey eyes.

Their gazes locked for a moment, and Annatar felt shivers coming down his spine. He had seen those eyes before, back when the world was different, as were his name and face.

"Your people would profit immensely from my knowledge," Annatar said, turning his gaze back to the king. Gil-galad was beginning to look outright bored by the conversation.

"Our people have a lot of their own knowledge," Gil-galad remarked mildly.

For a moment, the two of them stared at each other in silence. At last, Annatar gave in and bowed his head in resignation.

“May your people be content with their king’s decision, even if it does not serve them well,” he said, and his voice was cold. 

Gil-galad smiled in response.

“May you find a better use for your gifts, servant of Aulë.”

Two armour-clad guards approached Annatar from behind, stopping at a respectful distance, yet being absolutely clear about their intentions. He let himself be escorted away and out of the palace. 

_My gifts are not going to be wasted, you puny fish-stank princeling,_ he thought bitterly to himself. He had to believe he was right.

However, there was no denying that the meeting with Gil-galad had not gone as planned. He had been lurking around the palace for weeks before revealing himself to the king — at times hiding in the shadows, at times turning into a shadow himself. He had learnt everything there was to learn about the ways of this court, he knew exactly what to say to get the king into an affable mood and what to avoid. And to no avail. Curse that Peredhel! Annatar could swear he had seen him stoop down to whisper in the king’s ear several times, and whenever he did so, Gil-galad grew more and more distrustful.

The sky above his head was overcast with dark clouds, and the air was heavy with the promise of a storm. The streets were empty, and Annatar did not have to conceal his foul mood anymore as his feet carried him down the main road, restless and furious.

What would he do now that his initial plan had failed? Gil-galad was not the only one wielding power in this world, but he ought to tread carefully and pick his battles. Men were not an option, not until he grew completely desperate — they were ever so easy to sway and seduce, sure, but too weak, and too changeable. His plans needed time and patience beyond the lifetime of mortals — except, perhaps, for the Numenoreans, but he would not dare come that close to the Accursed Land. Not yet.

To his right, a sheer cliff rose from the rocky beach beneath, and on top there was a wide viewing platform overlooking the sea. Annatar came to the edge, leaning against the railing, and took in a deep breath of the salty, bitter air. The sea was dark and heavy, and for a moment it seemed to him as if the waves were grumbling maliciously in their unrest, calling his name, but he would not turn his gaze away or recoil in fear.

"I’m not in the mood for your threats, Lord of Waters,” he muttered under his breath.

A sudden gust of wind hit him in the face in response, tousling his new golden hair, but amid its moaning he caught the sound of a voice. At first Annatar ignored it, too caught up in his own thoughts, but then the meaning of the words reached his mind—

_—a revolt against King Gil-galad—_

—and he snapped back into reality. He reached out to the wind, seizing it, and searched the threads of the Music caught in it to unravel the message.

"If someone told me he was planning a revolt against King Gil-galad, I wouldn't be surprised. I have little trust in that man."

_That_ seemed to be something worthy of his attention. Annatar pricked up his senses, tuning into the intercepted conversation.

"Don't say things like that, Merethiel," a reply came soon enough. "Lord Celebrimbor may be self-willed at times, but he is a wise man. He would never go against Gil-galad."

"Wouldn’t he love everyone to think so," the Elf called Merethiel did not sound convinced, "But is it true? He comes from a family of rebels and backstabbers."

Annatar peered into the direction of the voices, his fingers digging into the cold stone of the railing until it started cracking. If he were a mere Elf, he would say that he did not believe his own ears; as a Maia, however, he knew his mind was incapable of playing tricks on him. Which meant that he had to find out more about this mysterious lord.

He cast a quick glance around himself to make sure there was no one near him and, turning into a shadow, slid soundlessly down the sheer wall of the cliff.

* * *

The two Elves talking turned out to be women. One of them was dark-haired, with broad shoulders and hips, and wore a sleeveless shirt that revealed her muscled arms. The other was tall and slim, with sun-kissed skin and reddish-brown hair, and her long tunic was the colour of young leaves. They were walking slowly along the rocky beach, talking in low voices that were nearly drowned out by the roaring of the wind and the waves. Their heads were drawn together, and they paid no mind to the shadow that slipped from beneath the rocks behind them and rose, taking the form of a tall golden-haired Elf clad in white. 

_“Of course,_ he wouldn't want to challenge Gil-galad _now_ ," the tall one said just as Annatar smoothed out his newly materialized robe, giving it a critical look. "The king's army is superior, and he has the support of the people. No, the wisest choice for him would be to win our people over little by little. Right now, he is stealing the craftsmen, and then—"

“I beg your pardon.” The women startled when Annatar spoke. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. Who is Lord Celebrimbor?”

The taller elf eyed him with suspicion, most likely wondering how he had managed to approach them without them noticing it.

"Who are you?" she asked, not too warmly.

Annatar gave her his best innocent smile.

"I am but a traveller who happens to be passing through your beautiful land," he said. "My name is Annatar."

He saw the woman's eyebrows rise slightly at the name, but her friend did not seem to find it strange.

"My name is Maedeth," she said. "And this is Merethiel," she added, pointing at her friend, who did not look enthusiastic about being introduced to a stranger. Then she gave Annatar a look full of curiosity. "Do you really not know who Lord Celebrimbor is?"

Annatar shook his head ruefully.

"I'm afraid I don’t," he replied. "I have only recently arrived here.”

"From where?" Merethiel asked with suspicion.

"From the West." Annatar said, putting emphasis on the last word and giving her a pointed look.

She frowned at the answer, but Maedeth's face lit up.

"I thought you looked outlandish!" she exclaimed. "Are you—" her voice dropped in awe, "—one of the Ainur?"

"I am only a servant of Aulë," Annatar replied humbly. He had to admit, it felt good to be finally addressed with the awe and admiration he deserved. "But little news of Middle-Earth reaches the Blessed Realm, so there's still a lot for me to learn. Perhaps you could give me a quick recapitulation?"

Merethiel opened her mouth to protest, but Maedeth beat her to it.

"Of course," she said. "But it would be a good idea to find a more sheltered place before the storm hits. Would you like to join us?” she held out a hand, smiling. “We were just on our way to my house; it’s not far from the shore here.”

“I might as well do that,” Annatar accepted, taking the offered hand. 

* * *

Maedeth’s house was a small two-storey building with a workshop on the ground floor and her private rooms upstairs. There they sat on the porch under the roof, joined by Merethiel — not so much because she wanted to spend more time with Annatar, but rather because she didn't trust him enough to leave her friend alone with him. Unsurprisingly, Maedeth did most of the talking, and soon Annatar learnt that Celebrimbor was not just _any_ Elvish lord, but a grandson of Fëanor himself.

"Didn’t the line of Fëanor completely wipe itself out by the end of the last age?" he asked, frowning.

"The sons of Fëanor perished," Maedeth replied, "but Lord Celebrimbor managed to escape their doom." She smiled mirthlessly. “Perhaps denouncing his father and uncles was what saved him.”

Annatar drummed his fingers on the table, his brow furrowed in thought. He understood now why he hadn’t recognized the name right away: he only ever knew him as a young boy, and his name had not yet been changed to better fit the ways of Beleriand then. 

"I knew Fëanor in his good years," Annatar said, and it was not entirely untrue. He may not have had the pleasure of meeting the man in person, but his eldest was an outstanding source of information, even if unwilling at most times. "Is this Celebrimbor anything like him?"

Maedeth appeared thoughtful.

"Well," she said hesitantly at last, "yes and no. To be honest, it rather depends on whom you ask. Some people say that he is prideful and stubborn, just like the worst of that family. Some describe him as humble and selfless. But if there’s one thing everyone agrees one, it’s this: Celebrimbor has come closer to rivalling Fëanor in his craft than anyone else.”

Annatar leant forward in his seat, intrigued.

"I am glad to hear that talent has not gone to waste," he said, meaning it.

Then their conversation strayed towards the realm of Eregion, and Annatar turned to Merethiel, ignoring her dark look.

"You’ve said that Lord Celebrimbor is stealing your craftsmen," he recalled. "What did you mean by that?"

Merethiel blinked, surprised at being addressed by him for the first time. She chewed her lip, as if contemplating whether or not she should answer at all.

“Our best craftsmen have been leaving Lindon to settle there,” she said at last. “They believe there are more opportunities for them in Eregion.”

“Why is that?”

"There is no place for a craftsman like Eregion,” Maedeth interjected. “It is rumoured that the masters of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain possess knowledge that has long been thought dead, the remnants of the ancient crafts of Tirion and Beleriand. Any ambitious smith or jeweller would be willing to sell their house, land, and a leg for a chance to learn from them.”

“What is the Gwaith-i-Mirdain?” Annatar asked, turning to look at her. They seemed to be an interesting bunch, if the woman’s description was anything to judge by.

“It is a guild of jewel smiths, founded and governed by Lord Celebrimbor. To be accepted into their ranks is the dream of many, but they admit only few. No one quite knows what it is that they work on, but—” she made a pause for emphasis, “—the word has it they are trying to rediscover the lost secrets of Fëanor.”

Annatar tapped his cheek with a finger thoughtfully. 

“Are they trying to re-make the Silmarils?” he asked, incredulous. That would be outright stupid, albeit something he would expect from the last living descendant of Fëanor.

Maedeth let out a nervous chuckle. 

“I don’t think so,” she said, although there seemed to be a hint of doubt in her voice. 

Annatar leaned back in his seat, thinking. All that these women had told him seemed too good to be true. Somewhere in the east, sitting on his high throne, there was a noble lord waiting for him. Not an offspring of lesser princes that rose to power after all of his great precursors had perished but an heir of a mighty king. Someone who would have both the appreciation for his craft and the talent to help carry out his plans. 

He rose to his feet suddenly, startling his companions. The women stared at him in confusion.

“Thank you for this conversation, I’ve learnt a lot,” he said, bowing his head. “I won’t take up any more of you time.” 

Somewhere in the distance, a roll of thunder shook the dark sky. The three of them looked at the sky simultaneously. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Maedeth asked. “You’re going to get all wet if you go now.” 

Annatar smiled.

“I will be fine.” 

The thunder grew closer as he strode away from the house and towards the main gate of the city without ever turning back. A harsh pouring rain came soon, but it did not worry him in the slightest. For the first time in many long centuries his purpose was clear.


	2. Chapter 2

When a company of emissaries was sent out of Lindon to negotiate mithril trade with the Dwarves of Moria, it came as a surprise to no one that Celebrimbor, the king’s kinsman and one of the best craftsmen of the country, would join them. He had – apart from his other talents – an extensive knowledge of the Dwarves and their culture that could serve as a valuable tool. The fact that the king actually appointed him to _lead_ the company, however, was met with more displeasure.

"It won't sit well with some people to see a Fëanorion in charge of a diplomatic mission," Elrond had told him as they were leaving the council, where Celebrimbor had baffled everyone by suddenly volunteering to be put in charge of the emissaries.

"You may be surprised by how far not caring about other people's opinions may lead you," replied Celebrimbor.

Elrond let out a chuckle and reached to pat him on the shoulder. 

"I know," he said. "Otherwise I wouldn’t have supported your candidacy."

Perhaps King Gil-galad was of the same mind, or perhaps it was Elrond – being universally loved and respected, unlike his cousin – who tipped the scales, but a month later Celebrimbor left Lindon at the head of a small procession of merchants and craftsmen he had hand-picked himself.

Celebrimbor was kind enough to return the favour when Elrond asked to join the emissaries, much to the king's horror. Gil-galad was loath to let his herald go; more importantly, he didn't want to part with a beloved cousin. It took a lot of persuasion on both of their parts to make him change his mind. And now Elrond rode next to Celebrimbor in the vanguard of the company, the two of them engrossed in hushed conversations most of the time.

At last, on a fine morning a fortnight later Celebrimbor, Elrond and the dozen of their companions came under the shadow of the Misty Mountains, looming over them against the pale blue sky, and that very evening they set up their last camp of the journey at the feet of Caradhras.

* * *

Celebrimbor woke Elrond up before sunrise, and it took the Peredhel a couple of moments to realize morning has come: it was still dark in their shared tent.

"Give me five more minutes?" he murmured sleepily, squirming away from Celebrimbor's eyes that glowed eerily in the dark. 

"I've given you enough," his cousin replied firmly. "All the rest have woken already. Get up, you need to get ready before setting off."

When Elrond, yawning, dragged himself to his feet at last, he found that Celebrimbor had already got changed into ceremonial attire. It was not his usual one that Elrond had grown used to seeing him wearing at feasts and public functions in Lindon; those clothes had been elegant, yet humble, fitting his status at the court. Now it was almost painful to look at him even in the morning dusk, the deep red of his layered robes contrasting sharply with the shining gold of the embroidery. His hair had been done, too, his simple braid replaced with many intricate plaits slithering around his head in a sophisticated pattern. Celebrimbor had been adamant about making a good impression on the King of Moria from the very beginning – which to him somehow meant dressing all of his companions in accordance with the Dwarvish custom.

"Since you took your time lying in, I’ll braid your hair now so that we don't have to worry about that later," Celebrimbor said, holding up a comb.

Elrond gave his cousin's plaits a suspicious look. 

"Do we _have_ to?" he asked, not too hopeful. He dreaded to imagine how much time it would take, and his stomach growled unhappily in response. 

"Yours should be quick to make," Celebrimbor replied with a small smile. "Your status allows for a simpler braiding."

"Excuse me," Elrond huffed with mock indignancy as Celebrimbor sat him down and started undoing his braid, "I'm sure my status is higher than yours."

"At the king’s court, yes. Here, however, I have the highest status as the leader of the emissary mission. Next come the representatives of the merchants and craftsmen. And then you – the secretary."

"If that means I don't have to wear so much jewellery in my hair, then I have nothing against it,” Elrond promised.

Celebrimbor finished combing his cousin’s hair, separated a small portion of it on his right temple and started braiding, his nimble hands moving quickly but gently. For a while, Elrond silently watched his reflection in a small handheld mirror Celebrimbor had given him, but soon he grew bored.

"Where have you learnt to braid those Dwarvish plaits?" he asked. "It isn’t common knowledge among the Noldor, is it?”

"Dwarves have taught me," Celebrimbor replied.

"Have you been secretly sneaking off to take lessons from the Dwarves this whole time? Why didn’t you bring _me_ along?”

"Don't be silly," Celebrimbor gently tugged on the plait he had just finished braiding. "I lived in Belegost for a couple of years in the First Age."

"Are you kidding me?" Elrond made turn around and look at his cousin to see if he was joking, but Celebrimbor's hands kept his head firmly in place. "How come I've never heard of it until now?"

"You’ve never asked. And it was a long time ago, long before even your parents were born."

"What were you doing in Belegost in the first place?"

Celebrimbor fell silent. He moved onto another part of Elrond's hair and didn't answer until it was fully braided as well. 

"My father went there on a political mission and took me with him," there was an almost imperceptible tension to his voice now, the one that Elrond had grown used to hearing whenever their conversations strayed towards the topic of Celebrimbor's family. He didn't know if his cousin was even aware of doing that. "It was supposed to be a short visit, but the Lord of Belegost seemed to enjoy my father's company so much that he invited us to stay for a while."

"You mean, for a couple of years?"

"It turned out to be so in the end. We made some good friends there." Celebrimbor trailed off for a moment before adding musingly, as if to himself, "Probably the last ones he had." 

Elrond shifted in his seat and bit his lip, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. Celebrimbor tended to get into that strange mood whenever he was talking about his father or uncles, and Elrond didn't like to see his cousin – his friend – like that.

"Do you think you will meet some of their descendants in Moria?" he asked, seeking to change the topic.

"I doubt that. I lost all contact with them centuries ago. I don't know if any of them went to fight in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, and if so, whether or not they survived it."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yes." Celebrimbor fell silent for a moment. Then he spoke again suddenly, and his voice sounded uncertain, as if he weren’t quite sure he wanted to – or should – talk about it, "There was a jewel smith among them – not of a high ranking, but he and my father grew rather close together. They seemed to have a lot in common. He used to tell us stories about Khazad-dûm, an ancient kingdom of the Dwarves where many of his kin still dwelt even after his forefathers had decided to leave for Beleriand. He used to say that he would return there at the sunset of his life, and he invited us to join him on that last journey, too." 

Elrond wished he could see his cousin's face, but Celebrimbor wasn't done yet, and so he had to keep his head straight.

"Isn't 'Khazad-dûm’ what the Dwarves call Moria?" he asked instead.

"It is."

"I see." 

It made more sense now. Of course, Celebrimbor's interest in this diplomatic mission had not been fuelled by his desire to help Gil-galad's politics in the east or by his love for negotiations – he lacked both. But if he had a personal motive…

Elrond kept silent, seeing no reason to voice that thought out loud. Meanwhile, Celebrimbor stepped back a bit and narrowed his eyes, looking at Elrond's fully braided hair critically. Then he let out a soft hum, satisfied with his work.

They left the tent together, and Elrond strode purposefully towards the fire around which their companions had already been gathered. Then he came to a sudden halt, as if someone had seized him by the arm, and turned around. Celebrimbor hadn’t followed him, rooted to the spot. He stood with his back turned to the west, gazing up at the sheer cliffs above them. 

* * *

The dwarf Curufin befriended was called Onar. He was just as short and broad as any other dwarf, with long chestnut hair and a beard, both streaked with silver. His round brown face was all wrinkled and rough from old age and many hardships, but his dark eyes sparkled with a perpetual cheerful glint. His house was hidden deep within the stony mass of the mountain, far away from the halls of the king where Curufin and Celebrimbor had been lodged, but they visited the old dwarf often nonetheless. 

That evening they lingered there longer than usual, and the host was invited them stay the night at his house. He had no spare beds to offer, only a couple of thin mattresses he spread out on the stone floor of the sitting-room. Celebrimbor, who had already began dozing off, didn't waste a single moment complaining as he slipped under the covers and made himself comfortable. His father, however, was wide awake as usual. He and the host remained seated at the table, heads drawn closer together as they carried on their conversation in lower voices. Curufin’s silky murmur and Onar’s whisper, talking about faraway lands and their strange inhabitants, lulled Celebrimbor to sleep.

He woke up in the middle of the night, as if shaken awake by some invisible force, and found himself in the dark room, lit only by the flickering flame of a candle. Curufin was still sitting at the table, but he was alone and his head was hung low.

"Father," Celebrimbor called softly. Curufin started, as if his son's voice pulled him out of some deep thought, and turned to look at him. The light in his eyes was dim. "Have you not gone to sleep yet? Is Onar still awake?"

"He has gone to bed,” Curufin replied. Indeed, their cheerful host was nowhere to be seen. "We have been talking."

There was something strange about the way his father spoke, and Celebrimbor looked at him with uncertainty. He felt like he ought to ask, but he knew how annoyed his father tended to grow whenever anyone showed any signs of worrying about him.

Curufin, however, was first to break the silence.

"Have you ever thought about going away, Tyelpë?"

Celebrimbor did not expect that.

"What do you mean 'away'? We _are_ away from home," he pointed out.

"Away from Beleriand," Curufin said. "Beyond the mountains and to the east."

"Why are you asking?" Celebrimbor asked, frowning. His father had never brought this topic up before.

Curufin shrugged.

"Onar said he is going to travel to Khazad-dûm in a few years’ time. He's inviting us to join him." 

Celebrimbor gave his father an incredulous look. Khazad-dûm was, indeed, very far away.

"Are you _planning_ to join him?" he asked.

Curufin was silent for a moment. The light cast by the candle was quickly waning, and the shadows around his eyes were growing longer.

"I'd like to go away," he said at last, and his voice sounded wistfully. "Just the two of us, you and I. I would take Tyelkormo, too, but someone has to stay behind to look after things. He wouldn’t mind, though."

Celebrimbor bit back a sigh. The sentiment, the way his father talked about it – it all sounded awfully familiar. Ages ago, when he was still a child small enough to sit in his father’s lap, Curufin would sit with him during long, peaceful evenings of Tirion, showing him maps of the Great Journey and pointing out all the places they would visit one day.

Back then his untroubled heart was filled with longing and excitement; now his father’s words rang hollow.

"Don't you ever want to escape, Tyelpë?” Curufin’s voice fell to a whisper. “To run somewhere where there's no shadow hanging above your head?"

"There's nowhere to run, Father,” Celebrimbor replied, not even trying to keep annoyance out of his voice. “No land is free of the Shadow now." 

Curufin's eyes bored into his. Then he sighed and turned away.

"Perhaps you're right," he said dully, and for a fleeting moment Celebrimbor’s heart squeezed with pity he had never felt for his father before. 

They never talked about that conversation again, neither the next day nor on the many days to follow.

* * *

The halls of King Durin III were filled with cheering, laughter and song as the feast held in the honour of the foreign visitors unravelled over the course of the night. Elrond was halfway through his second tankard of a heady ale, generously refilled by servants, and his head had begun to grow dizzy.

"You have been kind and generous beyond words," he heard Celebrimbor saying at his right, his cousin's voice sounding strangely distant and muffled, as if coming from underwater. "I hope these days will mark the beginning of a remarkable friendship between our people."

It had been a good couple of days, yes. The king of Khazad-dûm had been surprisingly accepting of the offers they had brought to the table – Celebrimbor's thoroughness seemed to have worked its charm on him – and their company was able to secure a good deal for mithril trade. There was no fear of coming home to the disappointment of the king and their people. 

"To friendship," Durin declared in a booming voice, raising his tankard in a toast, and all those seated near him immediately followed his suite.

Elrond looked sideways at his cousin as he took a sip of his ale. Celebrimbor had drunk just as much as he had, if not more, but still looked exceptionally sober, save for his slightly flushed cheeks.

Celebrimbor waited for the roar induced by the king's toast to calm down a little before leaning forward towards Durin and saying in a lower voice, "I was wondering if Your Majesty would allow for one more request from a friend."

The king looked at him with surprise; soon, however, his broad face broke into a wide toothy grin. He had drunk much more than either of his elf guests and was in a rather benevolent mood now.

"Ask away. But," Durin added in a mock strict tone, wagging his short finger, "let's remain reasonable, shall we?"

"Of course," Celebrimbor promised, and Elrond stared at him with suspicion. What else could his cousin possibly ask for? They had already accomplished their task.

"My lord, there is a good strip of land to the west of your country where nobody dwells at the moment," Celebrimbor began. "It is currently under no claim of any king or lord other than you. If the Noldor were to settle there, I believe it would bring prosperity to both our people in the shortest time." 

Elrond's eyes snapped wide open as his gaze shifted from his cousin to the king and back. _That_ was not part of the plan. At no moment in time had Gil-galad ever mentioned founding a new settlement in the lands west of Moria. 

Neither Celebrimbor nor Durin paid him any mind, however. The king appeared to be brooding over the elf's daring proposal, his thick eyebrows drawn together, while Celebrimbor sat leaning forward, holding his breath.

"Why ask now?" the dwarf asked at last, the drunken cheerfulness in his voice taking on a sharp, wary edge. "If that was part of King Gil-galad’s proposal—"

"I'm not asking on King Gil-galad's behalf," Celebrimbor interrupted hastily. "He has nothing to do with it."

Durin quirked an eyebrow at him.

"And, I assume, he knows nothing about your desire to— to branch out and make yourself a lord in your own right?" there was a hint of amusement in the dwarf's voice now. 

"You are correct, Your Majesty.”

Elrond cleared his throat.

"Celebrimbor," he called warningly, giving his friend a pointed look, but he was ignored once again. 

Durin leaned back in his seat, stroking his beard with slow measured movements as he studied Celebrimbor. There was, however, no hostility in his look. If anything, he looked rather... intrigued.

"You are a bold man, my friend," he said at last with a nod of approval. 

"Should I take that as a 'yes'?"

"Now let's not get ahead of ourselves," the king wagged a finger at him. Then he leaned forward again as his face became sober and continued in a low voice, "I'll tell you this: I may not be entirely against your proposal. If we’re to have Elves crawling in the valleys and fields beneath, I’d rather have you as a neighbour and not—” he cast a quick glance at Elrond, “—someone else. But it's not me alone you'd have to convince. Decisions like this aren’t made until they are discussed by the council.”

Celebrimbor bowed his head in acknowledgement. 

"Would you say I have a chance of convincing them?" he asked.

Durin chuckled in his beard.

"You can try," he said evasively. "You will find many of my councillors to be much less… flexible on the matters of race than I am. Granted, you seem to be quite an exception as well. I don't think we've ever been visited by an Elf learned in the lore and culture of the Dwarves of the Elder Days – not as long as I've been alive, at any rate. You can try – and who knows," he drummed his fingers against the table pointedly, "I may even support you."

Celebrimbor smiled and raised his tankard. 

"To King Durin of Moria!" he declared in a clear, loud voice.

"To King Durin of Moria!" echoed in the halls. 

Elrond watched his cousin down the last drops of his ale, something dark and ominous stirring in his chest. In that moment he knew, clear as day, that it wouldn't be long until Celebrimbor left Lindon never to return again.

* * *

"Why did you have to ask him that?" Elrond demanded the next day when their company had set off for Lindon, bearing good news to the king. "Are you truly that eager to leave Lindon and Ereinion?"

"It has nothing to do with Lindon or Ereinion," Celebrimbor said firmly.

"Then why?" Elrond pressed on. 

Celebrimbor didn’t answer for a long time.

“There was someone dear to me, a lifetime ago,” he said at last, “I’m simply honouring his wish.” 

Elrond gave him an incredulous look.

“It sure is an unorthodox way of honouring a wish.”

Celebrimbor said nothing. He turned his gaze straight ahead and rode on.


	3. Chapter 3

The boys were scrawny and dishevelled, their big grey eyes looked around warily as they crossed the pier, escorted by a company of grim-looking Noldor clad in the colours of the House of Fëanor. Celebrimbor's heart squeezed with pity when he lay his eyes on them standing at the High King’s side.

"Greetings to you, King Gil-galad and Lord Cirdan of the Falathrim," one of the boys said as they came to a halt before the lords; his voice rang high and clear, even though it was shaking ever so slightly. "We, Elrond and Elros of the Havens of Sirion, thank you for your kindness and refuge."

Celebrimbor cast a sideways glance at Gil-galad. His shoulders were tense and his lips were pressed into a thin line. He opened his mouth to reply, then put his hand to it, letting out a stifled cry of relief, and strode towards the boys, stooping to pull them both into a tight embrace. Elrond and Elros froze for a moment, dumbfounded, and then one of them raised his hand to pat the king on the back awkwardly.

"I am so glad to see you both alive and well," Gil-galad said when he let them go at last. Frankly, Celebrimbor doubted that 'well' was a fitting description; the twins looked malnourished and haggard.

The king looked up at the boys' escort, and his face darkened.

"I see that none of your lords dared to come and face justice," he said coldly. 

The boy that had kept silent until now tugged on his sleeve.

"They serve no one but us," he said, "and they are under our protection. We expect that they are treated with the same respect you are willing to show us."

Gil-galad stared at him in silence, evidently at a loss. In the meantime, Celebrimbor had the chance to study the boys' companions. Most of their faces looked vaguely familiar; he could swear he recognized one woman as a former follower of Caranthir. There was a characteristic frown on her face that for some inexplicable reason seemed to be a distinctive trait of that house. She looked up at him, as if sensing his eyes on her, and her face lit up with recognition. Celebrimbor turned away, suddenly ill at ease.

"Very well," he heard the king say hesitantly. "As long as you vouch for them, they shall have food and shelter in the city."

He gave orders to escort the newly comers to their accommodation, and the king's servants led them away. Some of the Fëanorions bowed when they passed Celebrimbor, and, turning away, he saw that that did not escape the boys’ attention. 

Gil-galad put his arms around the twins' shoulders and gently led them towards Cirdan and Celebrimbor.

"You may still remember Lord Cirdan, although it has been a long time since you last met," he introduced, as Lord Cirdan smiled warmly at them. "And this," he continued, turning towards Celebrimbor, "is Celebrimbor. He is also your cousin on your father's side."

Celebrimbor bowed his head silently. They had agreed, as soon as Gil-galad brought the news of a ship bearing the lost sons of Eärendil to Balar, that it would be a good idea to not mention his ties to the House of Fëanor for a while.

However, it turned out there was no point in that.

"You are the son of Curufin son of Fëanor," one of them said, and it was not a question. 

Celebrimbor shrugged in response to Gil-galad's worried look.

"I am," he said.

Elrond and Elros exchanged glances.

"Well met, Cousin Celebrimbor," one of them said as the other one held out his hand.

Celebrimbor blinked. The twins did not look scared of him. If anything, it seemed that they were nearly... glad to see him.

"Well met," he echoed, taking the offered hand. It felt small and bony in his. 

* * *

It was already dark when someone knocked softly on the door of his study. Celebrimbor put away his quill, casting one frustrated look at the open book lying on the desk before him and called, "Come in." Normally, he didn't like to be interrupted while he was working, but he had been reading the same passage over and over again for the last hour, and he was secretly thankful for the distraction.

The door opened with a soft creak, and Celebrimbor turned around to see Elrond standing in the doorframe. He had already changed into his night robe, and his long dark hair was wet.

"I'm not interrupting, am I?" the Peredhel asked as Celebrimbor closed the book.

"Not really," he said. "I was hoping I could work on something before going to bed, but I guess tonight is not the night to be productive." He looked at his cousin questioningly. "What is it?"

"I've remembered that I have brought something for you; somehow it has completely slipped my mind until just now," Elrond said, smiling apologetically. "See? I may have the lifespan of an Elf now, but there are parts of me that are still glaringly Mannish."

"It seems to me that you are quite content with having something to justify all your flaws," Celebrimbor replied half-mockingly and smiled, showing that he did not really mean that. He liked Elrond, after all. "Is it yet another of Ereinion’s gifts?"

Gil-galad had not come to visit him in Eregion, but he had loaded his herald with many gifts for both the Lord of Eregion and the King of Moria. Perhaps he was trying to make up for their bitter parting all those years ago; perhaps he was simply showing off his wealth to a lesser lord, who would have been struggling greatly to make ends meet in this new land had it not been for the generous help of his Dwarvish neighbours.

Elrond seemed to hesitate, which was not typical of him.

"Well, no," he said. "It is— it's more of a personal thing, which is why I didn't want to bring it up during the reception. And it's not quite a gift either."

Celebrimbor raised his eyebrows and studied his cousin.

"Well, where is it?" he asked. "You don't seem to be carrying anything."

"Of course, I'm not, I would be a fool to be dragging it around," Elrond replied. "Come with me, I've had it brought up to my room."

The room that had been prepared for Elrond was in the eastern wing of the lord's house, which had only recently been built. It still looked quite bare, with no statues or tapestries to liven it up, but the room itself had a nice view of the garden that Celebrimbor knew his cousin would like.

Once they were inside, Elrond pointed at a chest standing near the door.

"This is it," he said. "You may recognize it."

The wooden chest did not look special at all; it was sturdy, yet old and darkened with time. But he did recognize it, nonetheless. He had seen it years ago, when Elrond and Elros first came to Balar, bearing this very chest with them. An eight-pointed star was engraved on its lid.

"I'm beyond grateful," he said. "A chest is all I've been asking for all these years. Finally, I have somewhere to store my clothes instead of shoving them under my bed.”

Elrond rolled his eyes. 

"Very funny," he said. "And I wouldn't be surprised to learn that's exactly where you put your clothes. But it's not the chest itself that I meant to give you. There are some things that will probably be of interest to you. And even if they aren't, they are rightfully yours now anyway," the last sentence came out almost apologetically, and Celebrimbor looked at his cousin, sobering up.

"What’s in there?" he asked.

"I haven't looked," Elrond admitted. "I meant to, but Elros said that wouldn't be right — you know how he used to be, always doing the right thing. Maedhros and Maglor asked us to give it to you before they sent us away. They never told us what was inside, only that it belonged to you.”

Celebrimbor let out a mirthless chuckle, raising his eyebrows.

"That was centuries ago," he pointed out. "And you're only giving it to me _now_?"

Elrond shifted from one foot to the other, his cheeks going slightly pink.

"Yes," he admitted reluctantly. "We didn't _mean_ to keep it," he added hastily, "but at that time it didn't seem that you would accept it, or even care. And we... that was nearly all that we had left of them, so..."

There was a sad hint in Elrond's voice now, and Celebrimbor felt pity for his young cousin. The Peredhel was right in his reasoning, even if it had selfish undertones: ever since he had turned away from his father and uncle in Nargothrond, Celebrimbor had not cared much about his family. Or so he had convinced himself, at the very least.

It never ceased to amaze him how much Elrond — and Elros, in the short time that he was alive — seemed to love his uncles, despite all the pain they had inflicted on them. They rarely talked about it, but Celebrimbor could see it in their faces — the same longing that he had long taught himself to chase away. Sometimes it filled his heart with pity, and sometimes with anger and frustration. 

"You think I will take it now?" Celebrimbor asked.

Elrond cocked his head to one side, studying his cousin thoughtfully.

"I don’t know," he said. "Will you?”

* * *

Celebrimbor did, and, after Elrond left for Lindon, the chest he had brought was put in a dark corner in Celebrimbor's private room. 

He didn’t touch it for months, even though sometimes he would catch himself thinking about it, in the long dark hours of night or during an especially boring council. At last, one day something inside of him snapped. 

That evening he went straight to his room, telling the servant at the door to send away whoever would come seeking for him, and locked himself in. Then, without even changing his clothes, he sat cross-legged on the floor next to chest and opened it, the lid yielding to his touch with a soft creak. 

The contents of the chest seemed innocuous enough. There were books, old and tattered; some of those he recognized right away just by looking at the covers: he had seen them, read them, many centuries ago in his father’s library. Besides them, he could see items of clothing in the familiar red, black, gold and silver; and he spotted something that looked like a finely made leather sheath, too. 

On top of it all lay a stack of letters, tied together with a small piece of rope. Celebrimbor undid the knot and unfolded the first one. 

_Dear Tyelpë, I hope that you are faring well whenever you are_ , the letter read in Maglor's neat handwriting, and Celebrimbor suddenly felt a lump in his throat. He sat clutching the piece of paper in his hands for a while and contemplated reading it. Then he put the letter and the rest of the stack away. 

Returning his attention to the chest, he pulled out a vinous velvet tunic that seemed to be faded with time but unworn. He ran his hand over the fabric, enjoying the softness, then brought it closer to his eyes to examine the intricate ornament of leaves and flowers embroidered in gold and silver along the hems. He would have recognized Caranthir's hand even if there hadn't been a note attached to it.

_I made it before the Siege was broken, but now I do not know when I will have the opportunity to gift it to you in person,_ it read. _I still hope it reaches you before your Begetting Day._ _The news has finally reached us that you now dwell in Nargothrond. Not a place I would voluntarily choose, but I am glad to learn that Findarato is being helpful for once. Do not let him order you around just because he has the nerve to call himself "king". And keep an eye on your father and uncle for us. They tend to do foolish things if there is no one around to keep them in check._

The note was dated with Year of Sun 465. That would be the year Finrod died and Curufin and Celegorm were banished from Nargothrond. Why had Caranthir never sent his gift? Was it because he was angry with his nephew for denouncing his father? Or because he felt ashamed of his brothers’ deeds?

He put the tunic away and inspected the rest of the contents of the chest. Most of it was either his old belongings, left behind while fleeing Himlad, or assorted gifts that his uncles had never had the chance of presenting him with. 

Then something caught his attention, and he frowned, bending lower to have a better look inside the chest. At the bottom there lay a bundle of tattered, worn out cloth hastily wound around something small and solid. He unravelled the cloth, taking out a wooden figure of a dog, and felt his breath catch in his throat. 

* * *

There was a small river and a forest behind their house; not the dwellings in the grand palace of King Finwë, but a smaller, humbler house not far from Tirion. Technically, it was Uncle Tyelkormo’s hunting lodge where he spent his days whenever he had the chance to escape from the boring and tiresome life of a prince. Still, Telperinquar had grown used to thinking about it as 'their' house because his parents had a standing invitation to stay there whenever they pleased, and they often took advantage of it. 

He and Tyelkormo were both early birds, wide awake while the rest of the household was still fast asleep. Perhaps that was the reason his parents would come here so often: while little Tyelpë had Tyelkormo to entertain him, he did not demand their full attention with the first rays of Laurelin.

The boy never complained, though. He liked Tyelkormo best out of all his uncles and cousins — and he had many to choose from. Tyelkormo was bold and funny, and interesting to spend time with, and he would always treat Tyelpë as an equal — or so it seemed to him at that time.

The weather was cool and crisp that day, and Uncle Tyelkormo took him and Huan into the woods early in the morning. A gentle rain had fallen the night before, and the grass was still wet under their bare feet. One of Telperinquar's hands was held tightly by his uncle to stop him from stumbling as he kept turning his head this way and that, looking anywhere but at the path beneath his feet, and rattled on a ceaseless stream of questions.

"Why do trees and grass need water to grow? What happens if there's no water? Are there places where there's no water? Why are there no trees in the sea if there's lots of water there? Have you ever been to the sea? I haven't. Is it big? Is it bigger than Grandfather Finwe's house? Is it bigger than Tirion? Is it bigger than—?"

Huan let out a low growl, and Tyelkormo laughed. 

"Slow down, kid, will you? Huan is saying that your chittering is giving him a headache."

Telperinquar fell silent for a moment, pouting. Then his face lit up, and he looked up at his uncle, tugging at his hand impatiently. 

"How do you know what Huan is saying if he only ever goes 'woof-woof' and 'rrrr'?"

"That's easy," Tyelkormo replied. "It only sounds like 'woof-woof' and 'rrr' to you because you don't speak Dog, but once you've learnt it, it’s almost like speaking Quenya."

"Can I learn it too?" Tyelpë asked, hopeful.

"Of course. But only if you do well in your Quenya classes."

That sounded promising. Telperinquar was very good at Quenya; he could already read better than his uncles Pityo and Telvo, and they were older than him. 

They came at last in the shadow of a great oak. It was Tyelkormo's tree, planted while he was still in Grandmother Nerdanel's womb, and he liked sitting there under its branches on mornings like this. Tyelpë had his own tree too, but it was still no more than a little sapling far away in the gardens of Finwë.

Tyelkormo let Tyelpë and Huan chase each other in the wet grass, yelping and barking enthusiastically, while he settled in between the roots of the tree and started working on a half-carved out wooden figure he had retrieved from his pocket. When Tyelpë's overflowing energy was at last somewhat spent, he plopped down on the ground by his uncle's side, eyeing the piece of wood with curiosity.

"What is it?" he asked.

"What do you think?" Tyelkormo asked, holding it up before his eyes. 

Tyelpë stared at it for a moment before letting out an excited yelp. 

"It's Huan!" he exclaimed, shaking real Huan's paw to emphasize his words.

"Yes," Tyelkormo said, gently pushing his nephew away from his long-suffering dog. "I'm going to give you a toy Huan so that you stop harassing the real one." 

Huan let out a grunt of content.

"Can I have the real one instead?" Telperinquar asked.

"No," a firm answer came. "But I'll make it the next best thing."

Tyelkormo went back to work, and Tyelpë fell silent, watching wood peelings fall from beneath the knife, like small gentle flower petals. The dog’s head had been fully carved, and now the body was emerging slowly. 

"I can ask Father to put his special spell on it,” Telperinquar said suddenly, “and then I will be able to summon Huan whenever I please with this little toy, even if he is far away.” 

Tyelkormo chuckled without turning his head.

"If your father can do that, then I won't even grudge Huan to you."

"He can," Tyelpë said with certainty. "You’ll see.”

He was not really going to take Huan away from his rightful master; besides, Tyelkormo already let him play with the dog whenever he asked — as long as Huan himself didn’t mind that. But that thought — the thought that his father indeed could and would do anything for him — brought a warm fuzzy feeling to his chest, and he allowed himself to revel in it some more, resting his head against Tyelkormo’s shoulder.

* * *

Shaking himself free from the burden of old memories, Celebrimbor realized that night had already fallen. The room was basked in the silvery light of the Moon that made it blur and shimmer before his eyes.

He rose slowly and blinked a couple of times, adjusting to the dim light. The old chest stood open by his feet, and the wooden figure of Huan was still clutched in his hand. He brought it closer to his eyes, tracing the carved fur with his fingertips. It was warm to the touch — doubtlessly because he had held it in his hand for so long, but still… He could almost imagine that there was indeed a spell of summoning on the toy and that his uncle’s loyal dog could appear before him at any moment, if only he wished so.

He walked away from the chest to put the figure on the mantelpiece. Only then did he notice that his hand was shaking. It was a foolish idea, and pointless, too. Both the dog and his master had perished long ago, and neither could answer his call anymore. 


	4. Chapter 4

Seeing Lord Celebrimbor for the first time was… underwhelming. 

Annatar could hardly bite back a sigh of disappointment as he stepped into the lord’s hall in Ost-in-Edhil, escorted by two dark-haired guards bearing an eight-pointed star on their chest plates. He had imagined him to look like Fëanor, with shining jewels in his raven-dark locks and eyes burning with a wild, untameable fire; or like his father, Curufin, with his cold untouchable beauty and chiselled face. Celebrimbor turned out to be neither. 

He was tall, well-built, and long-haired in the way all Elves were, if only slightly fairer than most. If it hadn’t been for the circlet on his brow and the light of the Trees still lingering in his face and eyes, Annatar would have easily mistaken him for an ordinary Elf, of the nameless kind he had slain by thousands without ever giving it a second thought.

Annatar let none of those thoughts appear on his face as he came to a halt before the throne and bowed courteously. Celebrimbor regarded him with interest. 

"What is your name, friend?" he asked amiably. "And where do you come from? You don't look like a Noldo."

"My name is Annatar," the Maia replied, looking up. "I'm a servant of Aulë, and I bring the grace of the West to your beautiful land."

He could hear people whispering all around them in the hall, but whatever Celebrimbor thought of his words, his expression remained carefully neutral. 

"This is new," he said. "We have never before been visited by envoys of the Valar. Was it Aulë himself, then, who sent you here, so far away from the Blessed Realm?”

Casting a look around himself, Annatar spotted many faces filled with worry and fear. He noted them with grim satisfaction. If Celebrimbor had truly gathered the scattered remnants of the House of Fëanor within the walls of this city, many of them must be kinslayers or their descendants. Not the kind of people to have much love for the Valar.

"I’m not here as an envoy," Annatar said, looking back at Celebrimbor. "I come at my own will. I have heard people talk of you with praise, Lord Celebrimbor, and I wanted to come and see this land with my own eyes."

"And what do you think of it?" the lord asked.

"I have yet to see most of it," he said, "but I can already tell that you and your people have worked tirelessly to bring about the lost glory and splendour that I thought long lost in Middle-Earth. However—" Celebrimbor raised his eyebrows slightly. "There is room for improvement." 

"Let me guess," the Elf said. "The improvement that you, Lord of Gifts, are kindly willing to offer."

Annatar bowed his head.

"I only offer the gift of knowledge and craft — if you will accept it."

Voices in the hall rose in murmur, some filled with discontent, others with excitement. Celebrimbor paid them no mind, looking squarely on his guest, and for a moment Annatar’s confidence wavered as he felt that gaze pierce him to the core. It seemed that he had underestimated the power that was hidden behind the peaceful façade.

"I have lived long enough to learn that gifts from strangers rarely come with no strings attached," Celebrimbor spoke at last. "What interest do you have in helping us, Annatar?"

That was a smart question. Albeit not an unexpected one — a descendant of Fëanor would have learnt from his great forefather's mistakes by now.

Annatar knew what to say to that.

"The Noldor were once a proud and blessed people,” he said. “And they brought greatness to everything their hands touched, or their feet stepped upon. Do you remember the glory of the Noldorin realms of Beleriand, my lord? Do you not wish to see it restored here, in this grim and dark land that has been devoid of true light for so long? If you accepted my aid, you could turn Eregion into the greatest realm this side of the sea…” he trailed off, seeing a shadow pass over Celebrimbor’s face.

"Beleriand is no more,” the lord said dryly. “And the time of the dominion of the Noldor passed with it. I understand what you are talking about, and I desire none of it. I know my limitations. You promise us the glory and power of the days of old, but those promises are empty here. Middle-Earth is no Valinor; it obeys its own laws, not the ones we make for it.” 

Annatar was at a loss for words. Looking back into Celebrimbor’s eyes felt like stumbling into an abyss with nothing to cling to and stop his fall. He knew how to weave nets of lies that would ensnare a most cunning enemy, he knew how to use someone’s hopes and desires against them — but Celebrimbor had refused to give him anything to work with. 

What could he possibly offer to somebody who desired neither greatness nor power? 

So Annatar kept silent. 

Celebrimbor sighed and shook his head.

"You have my leave to stay in Ost-in-Edhil for a week," he said, and his voice was firm. "This should be enough for you to prepare for your next journey. Afterwards, I will expect you to leave."

Annatar bowed, casting his gaze downwards. 

“You are most generous, my lord,” he said quietly.

Then he turned around and left, feeling the weight of many eyes boring into his back. He kept a composed exterior, but on the inside, his whole essence was burning with the dark fire of rage.

* * *

Preparing for his next journey would not take too much time, as Annatar needed neither food nor armour, but he had made no plans for where he would go if Celebrimbor rejected him and now he was, frankly speaking, at a loss. He could, perhaps, go East, to find some rogue tribes of Men that still worshipped his lost master and try to get them under his sway. He could — but at the same time he felt, albeit vaguely, that he should linger in Eregion just a little longer. Linger he did, taking advantage of the leave he had got from Lord Celebrimbor.

His chance revealed itself, on the eve of his sixth day in Ost-in-Edhil and just as he began growing impatient, in the person of a young Noldo whom Annatar caught peering at him from out of the shadow of the bushes at one side of the main road.

"I know you are there," he called, staring at the trembling branches. "Come out."

The Noldo stepped out of his refuge, head hung in shame. He had a halo of untamed dark curls and long awkward limbs. He appeared to be hardly over 40. That did not, however, stop Annatar from boring his eyes into the intruder.

"You've been following me all day," he said, not a question but a statement. "Are you spying on me? What for?"

"I'm not spying, my lord," the boy mumbled, his gaze still turned downwards. "I am…" he trailed off helplessly. 

Annatar frowned.

"Look up when you're speaking to someone," he commanded, and the Noldo obeyed, meeting his eyes hesitantly. There was embarrassment written all over his features, but not the shame of someone who had done something bad. Annatar let his voice soften before asking, "What is your name?"

"Arnamath, my lord." 

"Do you know who I am, Arnamath?" 

"Yes, my lord," the boy's voice trembled ever so slightly. "You—you are a Maia of our master Aulë—or so I've heard people say." His next words were blurted out before he could stop himself, "Is it true?"

"That is true," Annatar replied. The awe in the Noldo's eyes was apparent, and Annatar understood what had sparked his interest. "Is that why you've been following me?"

"I have never seen a real Maia in my life," the boy admitted sheepishly, "but I've heard stories."

"What kind of stories?"

"Of Valinor, and of the War of Wrath," the excited light in Arnamath's eyes faded a little when he added, "But they say that all the Ainur left Middle-Earth long ago."

Annatar cocked his head to one side, considering the boy. Even though he thought believing in fate was foolish, he could sense that it was no mere coincidence that had brought them together. The boy was important somehow, if not for his own qualities or talents. No, there was little power in that lean, feeble body of an adolescent. And still, Annatar was not about to let him slip away. 

He gave Arnamath a warmer look.

"If you wanted to talk to a real Maia, you could have simply approached me out in the open," he admonished mildly, and watched the boy's cheeks take on a beautiful shade of pink with satisfaction. "Let us put this awkward first encounter behind us and start anew. Would you care for a walk?"

Arnamath's young fair face lit up with excitement, and he nearly stumbled and fell in a rush to join Annatar.

* * *

The reason Arnamath had felt so important to Annatar was brought up quickly, and if it hadn’t been for the boy next to him, Annatar would have laughed out loud.

"Yes, my parents are very close to Lord Celebrimbor," the boy said nonchalantly as the they sat on the city wall. "My father is a smith, and the two of them have been working together since they first met in Nargothrond. Surely you know where Nargothrond was, don't you? And my mother used to serve his father, I think — or his uncle? — before she left him to stay with Lord Celebrimbor in Nargothrond too. That’s how my parents met."

Once Arnamath had overcome his initial shyness and embarrassment, he turned out to be quite a talkative fellow. Annatar had no intention of making him stop; on the contrary, he was ever willing to lend him an ear and ask questions.

"So, he is a family friend, am I getting that right?" 

"Yes." Arnamath nodded. "He used to look after me sometimes when I was a child. He taught me how to read and write too. He's like an uncle to me, honestly."

The boy smiled at that thought, and Annatar smiled as well, although for a different reason.

"You seem to love him very much," he pointed out.

"I do," Arnamath admitted easily. 

Annatar leaned forward, propping his chin on his hands, and cast a sideways glance at the boy.

“I wonder what is on Lord Celebrimbor’s mind,” he said musingly. “He is a mighty lord, I can tell that, but it almost seems as if he is afraid of his own potential. It’s not something you would expect from an heir of kings and princes of the Noldor.”

The boy’s face fell, and Annatar understood that he had hit his mark.

"I’ve noticed that as well,” Arnamath said, lowering his voice as if he were wary of being overheard. “He often looks troubled nowadays, as if there's something on his mind that won't let him rest — but he never shares what it is, even if I ask."

Annatar put on an expression of pity.

"I am so terribly sorry to hear that," he said. "It must be painful to see someone so beautiful and strong in such a dreadful mood. Do you not have some idea as to what may be troubling him?"

Arnamath hugged one of his knees to his chest, looking thoughtful. 

"I can't be sure," he began uncertainly, "but I think it might have something to do with his past. I overheard my parents speaking about it once — I didn't mean to, but—"

"What is it about his past?" Annatar pressed on, perhaps a touch too impatiently. Fortunately, the boy did not seem to notice.

"Surely you know what House he comes from?” Arnamath gave him a pointed look. “His father, his uncles, his grandfather — all of them kinslayers. Of course, our lord is nothing like them: he has never killed anyone except for the beasts of Morgoth, and he repudiated his family long ago. But still. People are talking, and they say that House is cursed, and there's no escaping the Shadow for any of them, ever," his voice trembled suddenly, and he turned away swiftly.

"He is afraid his forefathers’ deeds may still catch up to him," Annatar guessed. And if he were afraid of following in the steps of Fëanor and his sons, then of course he would not be swayed by promises of glory and power, the very things that had led Fëanor to his downfall.

He saw the Noldo wipe at his eyes quickly and said nothing of it.

"I don't believe it," Arnamath said, although his words carried more certainty than his voice did. "Lord Celebrimbor has nothing to do with the crimes of the House of Fëanor, and the Shadow has long been overthrown. But he seems to be worried still, and I don't know..."

"I see now," Annatar said, and he meant it.

He caught Arnamath looking at him with a strange expression and raised an eyebrow at the boy.

"What?"

"I know it may be too much to ask," Arnamath began, dropping his gaze down, "but perhaps you could… help him? You are an Ainu, you have more power than any of us do, and if you could only—"

"I will help him," Annatar stated suddenly, and Arnamath snapped his head up, his eyes wide with surprise and joy. The Maia smiled warmly at him. "It’s what I said I came to do, didn’t I? Even if I did not know what help was needed then.” He took the boy’s hand in his. “It seems that fate has brought us together. I'll go to Lord Celebrimbor tomorrow and see if I can bring him some peace."

Arnamath jumped to his feet, bowing deeply. 

"I don't know how I can thank you, my lord," he said.

"I am glad to be of help," Annatar said. "Be at rest. As long as your lord has people who love him like you do, the Shadow won’t be able to claim him.”


	5. Chapter 5

The hall of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain was the most splendid building in the city, second to none including the lord's palace. It housed more than fifty workshops where the best craftsmen of Ost-in-Edhil worked tirelessly, creating wondrous things beyond imagination. Celebrimbor's private forge and study were also situated there, and that was where he was headed this evening, to enjoy a couple of hours in peace and silence and away from his overly enthusiastic councillors and the matters of state.

He was crossing the big garden in the front yard when he felt someone watching him. Frowning, Celebrimbor turned around to see a golden-haired figure clad in white, standing in the shadow of the trees behind him. The pale long face looked familiar, but it took him some time to remember the name.

"I was not aware you are still here, Annatar."

The Maia stepped forward, bowing.

"I have decided to use the leave you gave me to make myself better acquainted with the city, my lord," he said. Then, looking around, he added, "This is a splendid garden. I knew the Noldor were unrivalled in their mastery of metal and stone, but it seems they have no less talent when it comes to growing things."

"Our people have many talents," Celebrimbor conceded. "But this garden we owe to the generous help of our Nandorin kin."

Annatar smiled.

"Isn't it great when different talents come together to create something they would have been incapable of making on their own?" 

Celebrimbor said nothing to that. He gave Annatar a long, measured look. Darkness was falling over the city, and in the dusk the Maia's face and hair shimmered slightly. His posture was humble, as were his plain clothes, but Celebrimbor sensed great power confined to that slender frame. 

Their eyes met, and Annatar cocked his head to one side.

"May I ask you for a favour, my lord?" he asked, his voice low and melodious.

“It depends,” Celebrimbor replied carefully.

"It pains me that we have had no opportunity to speak to each other in all my time here, my lord. If it is not too much to ask, would you take a walk with me before I go?”

Celebrimbor thought about it for a moment. The request seemed innocent enough. 

"I will," he said at last. "But I only have time until sunset."

They went around the garden slowly. At first it was mostly Annatar asking questions — about specific plants and flowers they came across, about the construction of the city and its people, about Moria and the trade with the Dwarves (“It is fascinating to see the friendship between your two people renewed after so many years of enmity,” he remarked at some point) — and Celebrimbor answering them in a dry, business-like manner. Soon, however, he had to admit that the Maia’s company was rather pleasant. Annatar turned out to be a gracious listener, and he appeared to be genuinely interested in everything the Lord of Eregion had to say. Before Celebrimbor noticed, the conversation strayed towards the Elder Days, the realms of the Noldor in Beleriand and even further back — to the days of his youth in Valinor. 

However, as pleasant as the conversation was, something about it seemed off. There was a smile on Annatar's face and joy in his voice, but there was more to him than a naked eye could see, something that made Celebrimbor stop at times to look closely at his face, trying to perceive what lay beneath the surface. 

"What is it that you are not saying, Annatar?" he asked at last, cutting the Maia off mid-sentence. Annatar turned to look at him, raising his eyebrows slightly.

"Is something wrong, my lord?"

"You are not lying, but you are not being entirely honest either," Celebrimbor said with a frown. "You speak of Valinor as if it were a thing of a distant past, but it seems that you know a lot about our life in Beleriand. Yet I know for a fact Aulë gave us no aid or guidance in those wars. If you truly are a servant of Aulë, then there is more to your story than you are willing to share.” 

A shadow passed over Annatar’s face.

"You see many things, my lord,” the Maia said slowly. “And you are right, there is more to my story than I have told you.”

“Why?”

Annatar gave him a mirthless smile.

“Because I am selfish,” he said, “and I wanted to have a chance to get to know you better — and for you to get to know me, if only for a moment. Sometimes our past prevents people from seeing us for who we are; surely it is something you can understand, Celebrimbor son of Curufin?" 

Celebrimbor frowned. He did not like the emphasis Annatar put on those last words. 

"I do not think I can, not yet," he said.

The sun was sinking below the horizon, and the shadows in the garden were growing deeper and longer. Above their heads, dozens of small light-stones hung on the branches of trees began lighting up in the dusk. Annatar's golden hair appeared red in the rays of the setting sun.

He looked up at the sky, smiling sadly.

"I think out time has run out," he said. "At least, that is what you said. But if you are willing to listen, I would be glad to share my story in full before we part forever. I must admit, it would be a relief to have somebody else know."

Celebrimbor followed his gaze, looking at the red stripe of the horizon in the west, then cast a look at the westward window of his private study on the uppermost floor of the hall of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain. It was dark and empty.

He shifted his gaze back to Annatar.

"I will hear your story," he said.

* * *

Celebrimbor lit a candle to chase away the growing darkness in his study and sat in a tall chair at his desk, nodding at Annatar to take the seat opposite of him. 

"What is your story, Annatar?" he asked.

The Maia took his time to reply, considering the Elf with his head inclined to one side.

“I did not lie when I called myself the servant of Aulë,” he said at last, “for he has been my master since before the beginning of time. But he has not been the only one I have served.” 

He trailed off, looking at Celebrimbor, as if urging him to come to a conclusion of his own, but Celebrimbor said no word and only waited patiently. In the end, Annatar had to continue.

“Melkor—Morgoth, as you call him now, was my master once, long ago," he said, and it seemed to Celebrimbor that he almost flinched at the name. "There were many like me, in the beginning, who left our masters to join him — some out of pride, and the others out of love.”

“Love," Celebrimbor echoed, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes,” Annatar said, and there was a strange fire in his eyes now. “You would have understood me if you had seen him then, when Arda was still young. The mightiest of all the Valar, he came into this world like a storm of rage — and he was terrible and beautiful at the same time. We adored him, and we were not afraid of challenging the Valar, or even Eru himself, as long as we were following him.”

Annatar trailed off, closing his eyes with a sigh. Celebrimbor sat frozen in his seat, unable to tear his gaze away from the Maia’s face. Annatar’s words were filled with love and reverence, and they made his stomach churn painfully. 

"I left him," Annatar spoke again, breaking the silence. "In the end, I was able to see his wrongdoings and realized that the path offered by him would only lead to our ruin. I chose to save myself while I still could. I left him and repented, and asked the Valar to have me back, if they would." 

Celebrimbor leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

"Why should I believe you?" he asked, keeping his voice even. 

Annatar cocked his head to one side, smiling.

"You see many things, my lord," he said, "Look into my eyes and see if I am lying."

Celebrimbor hesitated for a moment before reaching out to touch Annatar's mind, and the Maia yielded to him, laying himself bare before the lord's eyes. It was new for him, looking down the soul of an Ainu like that, and it was confusing, exciting, and absolutely terrifying, all at the same time.

"Well?" Annatar asked after a while, and Celebrimbor had to pull himself out with effort.

"You are telling the truth," he said, his mouth suddenly dry.

He had to pour himself a glass of water before continuing. Annatar watched him with unblinking eyes. 

"Why are you here then?" Celebrimbor asked once he took his seat again, glass in hand. "If the Valar pardoned you — which I suppose they did, otherwise you would not be free to go whenever you pleased — why didn't you stay in Aman?"

It might have been a trick of light and shadow, but it seemed to him that the Maia shivered at his words. He opened his mouth as if to reply, then closed it, faltering, and cast his gaze downwards.

"I could never be at peace there," he said quietly. "The Valar are kind and ever willing to forgive those who make mistakes, but it is much harder to forgive yourself."

Celebrimbor clutched the glass so hard that his knuckles turned white. He put it on the desk quickly. Annatar did not seem to notice.

"I knew that my deeds had brought pain and misery to this world," the Maia continued. "How could I continue living in the bliss of Valinor when I knew there were people across the sea suffering the consequences of my actions?"

"So, you stayed here to—"

"To try and put things right, to the best of my ability," the Maia looked up, and there was a sad smile on his lips. "But I soon found out it was an impossible task."

Celebrimbor raised his eyebrows.

"Why?"

"We, the Ainur, are not of this world," Annatar said with a sigh. "Our task is to teach and guide, but not intervene. Those who disregard that, like Melkor did, can cause terrible damage. All I could do was offer my teachings to those who would listen, but... People who wield power tend to only use it for their own advantage, and those who are well-meaning are often powerless. Neither could help me."

He was looking Celebrimbor right in the eye now, and the Elf felt a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, as if he were suspended mid-air after falling from a great height. He swallowed with effort.

"And why did you think I would be any different?" he asked.

"When I heard of you, I allowed myself to hope again, my lord," Annatar said. "I knew how powerful Fëanor had been before his fall, and I could imagine what talents his grandson would have inherited. And I knew you had many virtues and a good heart, and you had known suffering and hardships. I thought... I thought that I had finally found someone who could help me in my pursuits — in return for my help as well.” 

Annatar's gaze on him was beginning to feel like an unbearable burden. Celebrimbor turned away and walked over to the window, looking out at the starlit city. A gentle breeze caressed his face, and he was suddenly aware that his cheeks were hot.

A moment passed in heavy silence, then another.

"You should go, Annatar," Celebrimbor spoke at last.

He heard a faint rustling of fabric as the Maia rose from his seat.

"My lord—"

"Come back tomorrow," Celebrimbor said without letting him finish. He turned around to look at the Maia. "I will give you my answer then."

Annatar smiled and bowed, pressing his hands to his chest.

"I will be waiting for it, my lord."

* * *

Celebrimbor's chambers were dark when he returned home, but he did not light any candles. His conversation with Annatar had left him wide awake despite the late hour, and he paced his bedroom restlessly until he grew tired and sat down on the edge on the bed. His gaze wandered around the room, resting at last on the old worn chest hidden away in a dark corner where it would not plague him with its presence. 

He had to sweep a thick layer of dust off it before opening the lid. He hesitated for a moment before reaching in to retrieve the old forgotten stack of letters. He took the first of them, written in a painstakingly familiar handwriting, and walked over to the window, pulling away the curtain. The full moon shining in the sky gave enough light for him to read, and the old paper felt frail in his hands.

_Dear Tyelpë,_

_I hope that you are faring well whenever you are_ , _for I do not know where and when this letter may find you. I cannot see clearly what this night holds for Maitimo and I, but I feel that we may never meet again on this side of the Sea. By the time you read it (if it reaches you at all) you will know what I am talking about._

_On my behalf, and on behalf of all my brothers living and dead, I want to say we are sorry — for everything we have done and are about to do. There are a lot of things that I regret, but failing you is the biggest regret of all. We were supposed to protect you, but it seems that we ended up harming you more than anyone else could._

_I do not expect you to forgive us, and I do not ask for your forgiveness. All I ask for is that you build a happier life for yourself after we are gone. Learn from our mistakes and tread carefully, but do not succumb to fear and uncertainty. This year marks the beginning of a new age, and even now I dare look out into the future with hope — not for us, for we have none left, but for you. Evil can be overthrown. Old wounds can be mended, and what is broken can be repaired or built anew. And, for better or worse, it falls on the shoulders of younger generations to do the repairing._

_You are now the lord of the House of Fëanor. It is an honourable and bitter responsibility. We trust you to handle it wisely._

_Bidding you a fondest farewell,_ _  
_ _Kanafinwë Makalaurë Fëanarion_

Celebrimbor put the letter down and took a deep breath. A gentle breeze touched his face, and he was suddenly aware that his cheeks were wet.


	6. Chapter 6

_Ost-in-Edhil is beautiful at night_ , Annatar caught himself thinking as he stepped onto the balcony overlooking the city. This night the city was gleaming in the rays of the moon, like a lone white jewel in the sea of darkness. He had never thought about it before, but now, standing there 30 feet above the ground, he almost felt melancholic at the thought of it being cast down and devoured. 

He could, after all, appreciate true beauty when he saw it.

Celebrimbor's footsteps were light and soundless, as is the case with all Firstborn, but Annatar sensed his approach, nonetheless. 

"Enjoying the view?" the cheerfulness in his voice was obviously forced.

"I am," Annatar replied. He turned around to look at Celebrimbor. There was a soft smile on the Elf’s lips, but it did not reach his eyes. "I thought I would take one last look from above before I go."

"Will you miss—" Celebrimbor's voice wavered almost imperceptibly for a fleeting moment, "—the city?"

"I will," Annatar said, and he meant it. His short stay in Eregion had been enjoyable, at times even more than he had anticipated. Even amid the anticipation of greater things to come, he would sometimes find himself thinking fondly of this small stretch of land with its feeble, insignificant but oh so amusing little people. 

Perhaps that was what the Eruhini called “getting old”.

He took Celebrimbor’s chin in his hand, raising it gently but firmly until their eyes met.

"I _am_ coming back," he said mildly. "Perhaps not very soon, but I won't be missing for too long in any case."

Celebrimbor blinked and turned away with a small shrug. 

"I know," was all that he said in response.

Annatar reached out to take the Elf’s hand, interlacing their fingers. Celebrimbor's hand was warm to the touch, his veins always throbbing with hot blood and vigour. Those, too, he had found rather enjoyable during his stay here. 

"Don't be sad," the Maia said, catching his eye again. "I’m only leaving because I have to, not because I want to part with you. But once I am back, there will be no more partings for the two of us."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Celebrimbor admonished him mildly. There was, however, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Unless you want me to hold you to it."

"I would have you hold me," Annatar said, and Celebrimbor took the hint right away, sliding one of his hands around the Maia's slim waist and bringing his forehead to rest on Annatar’s shoulder. 

They stood like that for a while, in silence, as Annatar ran his slender fingers through Celebrimbor's silky dark hair absentmindedly. At last, Celebrimbor spoke again.

"I've been meaning to ask you—" he trailed off. "Well. I meant to keep it for later, but since you're leaving I might as well do it now. I've been working on something — a private project of mine, if you will — and I'd like you to have a look at it before you go."

Annatar could not bite back a frustrated sigh before it escaped his lips, and Celebrimbor pulled away, looking mildly offended.

"I'm sorry," the Maia said, "but can't it wait until after I return?"

If there was anything he had learnt of Celebrimbor during their stay together, it was that the man’s thirst for knowledge was absolutely unquenchable. “Having a look” at something meant he would be bombarded with questions until the morning. Sometimes it was amusing, sometimes it was endearing, and sometimes it really tested the limits of his patience. He had no desire to spend his last hours in Eregion bent over Celebrimbor’s desk in his dimly lit study or among the furnaces in the forge.

Besides, his mind had already passed onto other, much greater things; Celebrimbor was not the only one with private projects of his own.

An expression of disappointment passed over Celebrimbor’s face before he composed himself again.

"I guess it can," he said.

Annatar pulled him closer, leaning forward to kiss the frown away from his face. 

"There's no need to be hasty, my dear," he said. "Soon enough, we will have all the time in the world to ourselves."

* * *

Annatar rode away at dawn. Celebrimbor alone went with him to the gates of the city, to bid him the last of the many farewells they had shared.

"May stars shine upon your path," he said, pressing his right hand to his chest. And, before he could stop himself, "Come back soon."

The Maia smiled and stooped on his horse to press a quick kiss to the Elf's brow. And then, sitting up, he turned his gaze to the road and set off without another word. 

Celebrimbor followed him with his eyes, and for a moment it seemed to him that the world around him had grown dimmer despite the rising sun. A shadow passed over his face, and some dark feeling stirred deep in his chest. He would have called it foreboding, except he knew he lacked the Sight that some of his more gifted — or cursed — relatives possessed.

"It must be the clouds," he told himself, looking up. Indeed, the sky above him was overcast with heavy dark clouds, the promise of a long-awaited rain to quench the scorching heat of summer. 

The streets were still empty when he started on his way home. Absentmindedly, he slipped a hand into the secret chest pocket on his robes and retrieved a small, fine ring he kept hidden close to his heart. It was warm to the touch, and its red stone shone in the gloomy morning, as if filled with light of its own, and Celebrimbor felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite his dark mood.

His long, tireless labours over the years had not been fruitless. At last, there was his promised key to the repairing of what had been broken and the mending of old wounds. At last, he had found the way to keep the Shadow at bay.

The Ring of Air and Ring of Water — the rings of hope and protection — he had put into a secret keep, to wait until their time came. The Ring of Fire — the ring of creation — was ready to be put to use. He would have to wait for Annatar to return before attempting anything big with it, but in the meantime… there was no harm in giving it a few simpler tests.

Celebrimbor smiled and slipped the ring on his finger, pressing the hard stone to his lips. The spark inside of it fluttered at the touch of a kindred soul and then flared up into a triumphant blazing fire.


	7. Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this story was this lovely art by [bird-with-glasses](https://bird-with-glasses.tumblr.com/)! It features Celegorm carving a wooden Huan toy for his favourite little nephew (chapter 3) and Annatar seeing it ages later, getting some very uncomfortable flashbacks to that time he had his ass handed to him by an Elvish maiden and a dog.


End file.
